Warm Hands
by jinxedklutz
Summary: Inside, Sam is cold. [Two part drabble!fic]
1. Warm Hands

**Summary:** Inside, Sam is cold. (An drabble!fic, inner demons style. Warning: If you like Sam, you probably won't like this fic. I'm not even sure why I wrote it.)

**Disclaimer:** Supernatural is not mine. If it were... yeah. This fic will finish that sentence for me.

**Spoilers:** Pilot, "Wendigo", "In My Time of Dying", "Nightshifter", "Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things"... all just small references or quotes.**  
**

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**"Warm Hands"**

Inside, Sam is cold.

Oh, Dean is always going on about his puppy-dog eyes and his trusting demeanor, but Sam has always known the truth. And the truth comes out sometimes when he least expects it.

Like with Ronald.

Yeah, Dean thinks he's all compassionate and understanding because he lends a listening ear and sympathy for grieving sisters, brothers, friends, parents of victims. But all the while Sam has this empathetic look plastered on his face, he's really analyzing things to their finest details. His eyes say, "I feel for you," while his brain is asking questions, like, 'Where was the body found?', 'In what condition was it?', 'Was there any reason that this person might have been killed?' And then the reasons are hypothesized, followed through until their conclusions. Not all of them paint the victim as completely innocent or undeserving.

Sam doesn't think he was wired to think that way. And maybe that's why he's afraid of what the Yellow-Eyed Demon said. So he tries _not_ to think about it, but that _is_ how his brain works. So he can't stop himself. Not in the daytime, when he's researching jobs, not in the night, when he's staring at the ceiling, blankly.

Because he knows he's not as innocent as Dean claims. "You feel guilty after searching the internet for porn," Dean has said frequently, and Sam thinks maybe that's why he was so surprised at the way Sam treated Ronald.

He looked the man straight in the eye and lied to him, "confiscated" his video footage, as Dean said, played the perfect Man in Black. So cold.

So maybe that's why he can't help it when he wonders if it's all his fault. His mother's death, Jess's... maybe even Dad's. Dean thinks it's _his _ fault, but Sam wonders. Maybe it just goes to show how ego-centric he really is, but he can't help but think that maybe his father saved Dean to try and save _him_.

And so, when Dean asked him, "So tell me... what could you possibly say to make that all right?", maybe that was why he couldn't find the words. After all, it is only the naive that think they have all the answers. But he hadn't been so much as stunned, but struck speechless by his own guilt.

There was a saying: "Cold hands. Warm heart."

Sam sat, comforting grieving family members, and his hands were warm, his whole being emoting, 'Believe in me. Trust me. I care.' While inside...

Warm hands. Cold heart.

And maybe what gets him the most, is that he knows Dean is just the opposite. Putting on this roving, womanizing facade, while the whole time, on the inside, he cares so much. Once, he told Sam, "I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. You know, saving people. Hunting things. The family business." The joking manner thrown in to distract from the hidden truth.

The whole point for Dean, summed up in a few words--"saving people, hunting things."

Cold hands. Warm heart. And Sam is jealous. Because Dean being fake is more genuine than he could ever be.

End.

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**A/N:** This was one of those "trying something different" fics, so I'd appreciate input. :D Please tell me what you thought--liked, hated, etc. Thanks! Jinxed.


	2. Cold Hands

**A/N:** I got bored and decided to write a little continuation. It seems I am biologically incapable of drabbleling. And, as you will be able to tell soon enough, I'm also a big, giant sap. :)

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**"Cold Hands"**

"Sammy...?"

Sam looks up from his hunched position beside the toilet, and Dean frowns down at him sleepily. He's got that "don't mess with me" groggy look going on, and Sam would dearly love to ignore his question and follow his first instincts, but he's just woken up too, and he's not in the mood to beat around the bush.

"I had a suck dream..." he answers, hoarsely, because throwing up until you retch sorta does that to a person.

Dean hovers underneath the doorway, uncertainly, which is really something you shouldn't do if you want to avoid getting sucked into an alternate universe... or was that Fairie? For all he knows, that was something he got from that show about three good witches he watched, once. Sam can't remember right now 'cause his head is pounding, and he can barely even hear his own thoughts. Funny. He doesn't _remember_ drinking last night...

"A _what_ dream?" Dean asks, probably thinking something dirty.

"It freakin' sucked," Sam elaborates with the fine oratory skills he acquired at Stanford.

Dean continues to hover, which begins to annoy him. Scratch that, it was _already_ annoying him, now it's really ticking him off. He gets up, wobbles, balances, drags his gaze from the floor to his brother's greenish, hazel eyes, and glares.

Dean purses his full lips and asks, "Wanna talk about it?"

If it wasn't for the thoughts that kept him up half the night, and probably caused the stupid nightmare in the first place, Sam might've taken him up on the offer. But all the doubts from earlier come screaming bloody murder into his head, and instead of accepting Dean's offer of a shoulder to cry on, he ends up grabbing him by the front of his t-shirt and slamming him against the bathroom wall, instead.

And then he sees the flicker of fear in aqua depths, and he breathes in sharply and eases his fists out of Dean's white t-shirt. "I'm..." He begins to apologize, staring away toward the interior of their dimly lit motel room. But somehow, "sorry" doesn't seem like it'll cut it.

"Hey," Dean rebukes, gently, and takes Sam's arm. "What is it? Come on, talk to me, Sammy."

Sam continues to avoid eye-contact, but he shrugs, saying, "Nothin' to talk about. I had a nightmare, I feel crappy, and all I wanna do is go back to bed."

Dean's hand falls away from his arm, but after a moment, he speaks, "You're not fooling me. Something else is bothering you besides that bad dream." Sam's eyes shoot up to scan his brother's face, and he can tell then, by that stubborn look, that Dean isn't going to drop it until he gives... even if it's just a little.

Well, he can do that, and maybe then Dean will let it be. So he clears his throat and answers, "I dreamt that you died... and..." He shrugs. "I was the only one left, and I just wasn't good enough, you know?"

Dean frowns, and Sam finds that not meeting his gaze is becoming a bad habit. "What are you talking about 'not good enough?'" Dean demands. "Of course you're good enough! What could you not be good enough at? Nothing that's important, that's for sure."

What is Dean thinking? That Sam is worried over not having the same charisma that Dean has with the women? That he wants to be a better pool hustler? That he wants to be just as witty, charming, as good of a shot? "You don't get it," he retorts, sullenly, and starts to retreat into the bedroom.

Dean catches his arm and drags him back, stumbling. He steadies Sam, with another hand on his other arm, and Sam blinks at him, owlishly, trying to figure out why it bothers him so much that he doesn't just pull away. "Okay, so _tell_ me. What are you saying? That you're not good at _what_?"

Now Sam realizes he was just using Dean's usual denseness as an excuse. He wishes he could just take it back and lie. "I'm not like _you_, Dean," Sam answers, frustration, fear, anguish all filtering through, despite his attempts to keep his voice level. "I don't _care_ about hunting," he mumbles, ducking his head and glaring down at his stockinged feet.

He can almost hear the scowl in Dean's voice, when he says, "What'd'you mean, you don't _care_? Of course you care." Sam looks up in time to see the scowl turn into a confused frown.

"Is this about wanting to do something else with your life, again?" Sam doesn't answer. He _can't_ answer, and Dean's mouth comes open, and something flickers across his face before he gives his younger brother a nervous smile. "Because you can always go off and do whatever. Sammy, you don't _have_ to stick around."

God, Sam hates the way Dean can't help but make that come out as a question. No, not just a question, a stream of unspoken confessions. _I'll let you go because I love you... If you want to leave--if that's what you really want--I'll let you go... But... please tell me you don't want to leave, Sammy. Are you going to leave me again, Sam? Please don't go..._

Sam shakes his head emphatically. "_No_... that's _not_ what I meant." Sighing, he throws his head back to glare at the ceiling. "God, Dean... I just can't-- I don't know how to explain this to you. I mean, I'm always trying to get you to talk to _me_, and here I am being a hypocritical chicken!" He laughs without really feeling it, and Dean's fingers tighten into his upper arms a little.

When he looks away from the the mildewed ceiling tiles, Dean is waiting patiently for him to continue. He swallows and says, doing the best he can to tell his big brother what's weighing so heavily on his mind. "I... I'm not like you think I am, Dean. I'm just pretending, you know? I go around with this mask on... and..." He chuckles again, humorlessly. "God, that sounds cliche, but it's true. I don't let anyone see what I'm really like. And I'm not a nice person, Dean." He tilts his head and smiles wryly, using the body language and facial expression to emphasize his point.

Dean simply stands there, hands on Sam's arms, maybe trying to steady him still, or maybe to keep him from trying to run away again. The younger Winchester adds, in woebegone tones, "I don't care about the _hunt_ because I don't really care about the _people_. I don't care, Dean." He swallows and wishes he could look away, but now that he's stopped hiding, he can't try to hide that way, either.

His brother shakes his head, gives Sam this strange, eyebrow-raised expression, then squeezes Sam's arms a little. "You're an idiot, Sam, ya know that?"

Sam blinks. "Huh?"

Dean nods. "Uh, huh. You're definitely a few brain cells short of an average IQ." He frowns, serious once again. "Do you think you'd even worry about caring if you really _didn't_ care, Sammy? Have you ever thought about that? So, before you waste your time, standing there whining, maybe you should take a second and think about all the people that _don't_ do anything to help and claim they care. Now _that's_ hypocritical, Sam, and you're not.

"You do what you can, and if you feel a little numb sometimes..." Dean shrugs. "Well, it's not 'cause you don't care, I can tell you that. Maybe it's 'cause you care too much, and you can't deal with all of-- all of this." He lets go of one of Sam's arms to wave his arm, expansively. But when Sam shifts uncomfortably, Dean reclaims his arm and continues, "And about that dream...?"

Sam swallows back grateful tears and questions, "Yeah?"

Eyebrows lift playfully, as Dean answers, matter-of-factly, "Nothing you're gonna have to worry about 'cause I'm sticking around to make sure you _don't_ have to do it on your own. Got that?" That last is delivered more seriously, and Sam understands that Dean doesn't want to hear anything but an affirmative.

Dean is so much like their dad. It was always "yes, sir" John wanted to hear. No, that wasn't fair. Dean made an effort to understand Sam, even if he pretended not to. He gave Sam the option of voicing his doubts, his fears, his outright rebellions. And Dad had never been able to understand that that was all Sam needed, wanted.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam murmurs, giving Dean a relieved half-smile. Some sort of ache in his chest has been removed, and he feels like he can breathe again.

"For what?" Dean questions, giving him an annoyed, narrow-eyed look.

"I donno..." Sam replies, smile widening into a grin. He shrugs, and Dean appears bewildered. "For believing in me, I guess."

Dean makes this disgusted noise, rolling his eyes. "Oh, come on..." he grumbles, then finally releases Sam. "Give me a break." He starts for the door, and Sam stops him with an impulsive hug.

He knows he shouldn't have, but despite his linguering doubts, Dean has made him feel like it'll be okay. And he definitely deserves a hug for that. "Le'go of me, you big sissy," Dean grumbles, pushing him away after a moment. But Sam didn't miss the faint sensation of Dean's hands hovering oh, so close to the back of his waist.

"Jerk," Sam ripostes, disengaging and heading off to his bed.

Dean closes the door and uses the bathroom, then comes out, calling to Sam, who's lying back on the bed but not trying to sleep just yet. Not that he _can_ with his head still throbbing like it is. "Hey, you want somethin' for that headache?" Dean rummages in his duffel bag, retrieving a little white bottle. He shakes it, lifting his eyebrows in question, and pills rattle around inside.

Sam groans, shrugs, and Dean snickers lightly and heads into the bathroom. Sam can hear the water running for a bit, and then shutting off. Then Dean returns with a glass of water and two of the aspirin. He hands the glass and aspirin over to Sam and sits beside him on the edge of the bed, watching him gulp them down.

When Sam is through, Dean takes the glass and sets it on the side table. "What made you start thinking that stuff in the first place?" Dean asks, and Sam frowns, laying his head back against one of the pillows. He should've known Dean wasn't just going to drop it completely.

"I don't know... just... the Demon said--"

Dean interrupts, "I already know, and I don't want to hear that crap again. You're not gonna turn evil, Sam." When Sam glares at him, he continues, "You're too..." _Innocent?_ Was that what Dean was planning to say?

At Sam's look, Dean says more quietly, "Sam, listen to me. Do you think the reason I like hunting so much is because I do it for the pats on the back? Huh? Because it's not, and I know what you're thinking, but saving people isn't the only reason." He's so serious now, so bare, that Sam wants to look away, but he just can't.

"Do you think the only reason I'm hunting is because I wish you could sleep better at night? It's not, Sammy. I do it because it's the only-- It makes me _feel_, Sam, and it's about the only time I do. Now you tell me what sort of sick freak needs to kill things to get any satisfaction out of life."

Sam's mouth is hanging open as he sits up and starts to reach out to his brother. "Dean..." he begins, but Dean shakes head and cuts him off again. Sam lets his hand fall into his lap.

"But we're not talking about me. I was trying to make you understand that _caring_ about this... this freakin' job doesn't necessarily make you a good guy, or not. The fact that you _want_ something else besides this messed up life, means that you don't have it in you to be evil, Sammy. That's all there is to it." Dean shrugs, as if he's given the most rational, seamless argument in the history of debates.

Sam scoffs softly, shakes his head, sighs, and finally concedes, "I hope you're right."

"I am right," Dean says, giving him a cheeky grin and moving over to his bed.

"Jerk," Sam throws at him, by way of "goodnight."

"Baby," Dean retorts, right before switching off the lamp.

And though suddenly immersed in darkness, Sam's inner demons don't come to whisper in his ear, this time.

End.


End file.
